


The spaces between

by SitWithMeInTheDark



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: And she watches her murder get solved, Cute, First Person, It's about a girl, M/M, That's it, This is so fucking random, Who Died, by Sherlock, fluff?, super short
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-11
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-18 18:14:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29986875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SitWithMeInTheDark/pseuds/SitWithMeInTheDark
Summary: This unknown girl gets killed and comes back as a ghost. Then she watches her murder get solved by Sherlock, which is awesome, because she's a huge fan.2000 words y'all. I spat this out because it popped into my head and it was easy to write.Please enjoy.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12





	The spaces between

I already knew I was dead.

I knew because I remembered it. I could remember dying. And I remember what happened after that too. I remember walking away from the blood and the body. And coming back here, because this is where I was already going.

It made sense, to come back here. I just wasn’t sure what to do once I _was_ here. After all, I couldn’t do all the things I would have. I was _dead._

So I stayed. And I waited. And the obvious thing happened.

My roommates noticed I wasn’t around. My mother noticed I wasn’t answering her calls. The police came.

They’d found my body. And the man, the one with the kind eyes, the one everyone else took orders from, he said my name. Read it off of his little, cliche notebook. Read it out like I was nothing but a word.

But he had kind eyes.

And they all talked about me, knowing I wasn’t there to hear them.

The woman scoffed at how neat my room is. The man, the asian one with the weird hair, he made a gross joke about the pillows on my bed when nobody was around to hear him but an underling too intimidated to tell him to fuck off.

I would have told him to fuck off. I always had before. I never minded that some people were bigger or meaner or higher up on the social status scale. I would have told him a lot of things. But I couldn’t, I was dead.

But whatever. Fuck him. I was bothered. Not by the inappropriate jokes littering the police force, not the way my roommates avoided the space like they didn’t know what to do with it. I wasn’t even bothered really that I was no longer alive.

I was bothered, because no one looking at my life now would know what all the little things meant. I had known. I had known everything about this room. The story of how every single object came to be there. Why they were still there know. The rationale behind the placement, the angle, the colour or shade of every single piece.

More than any other place on earth, this room was _mine._ Like my life was mine. And like my life, _I_ had built it. I’d done so so carefully. Nothing in here was accidental. That’s the kind of person I had been. Purposeful. Thoughtful. And decisive. When I decided I wanted something, it was definite. And when something was no longer worth the space it took up in the room, _this_ room, this precious place where everything in it had to earn it’s place. I threw it out, gave it away without regret.

Sometimes, I would look around and it was like I could read the significance of it all.

No one would ever do that again.

All these things had suddenly lost their value. They were nothing. All because I had lost my life.

But then, the one with the kind eyes took out his phone and asked for help. Said they couldn’t figure out how it had happened. That nothing on the body or in the room or from the people who knew me could help them figure out what it was that got me killed.

And it was _so obvious._ Suddenly I wanted to scream. It was _so obvious._ Guess hindsight’s a bitch like that.

And then.

And _then._

_He_ came. Fucking Sherlock Holmes. Oh my god. Sherlock _Fucking_ Holmes. In my room! _And_ John Watson. I watched as they stepped under the tape. I squealed. They were investigating _my_ murder. _Mine!_ I could just _die!_

And they were bickering. They were _always_ bickering. I followed Doctor Watson’s blog _religiously._ I always left a comment. And I knew they were always bickering. Like an old married couple. It was adorable. I couldn’t get enough. I was on all the forums. I was a certified fan. I _could not_ believe this was happening.

Kind-eyes explained the thing to them, again. And Holmes was already cataloguing the tiny room. He swept over the bookcase. He stuck his nose in my bed covers. he flung open the closet and the dresser and he pulled out the drawers beneath my bed.

And then the gross one, he popped his head in and made a remark about how _nothing was here._ I wanted to smack him _. I_ was here.

And he must have been in a mood. He get’s like that sometimes, I know. He just have been irritated, possibly depressed. Possibly craving. Whatever it was, it was easy to set him off. One smug comment from the gross one and he was off.

And that was the really magical thing. Because I knew he was good. Ridiculously good. Stupidly, unrealistically good. Everyone knew he could read a person like a book and solve a crime like a children’s puzzle but I didn’t know _this._

All the giddiness floated away because suddenly he could _see_ me.

I mean. He couldn’t. Wouldn’t that be nice? No. But he could see the things I could see when I looked around this room. He might as well have been living in it all his life.

The tangent was beautiful and hilarious and ridiculous. And all about _me_.

He pointed out the books on the shelf. Knew I was a psych major, that I was already working in the field. Obvious from the ICD I got for myself two summers ago, the textbooks, the books that detailed theories and interventions that were too specific to be for any one class. He explained how I liked reading physical copies better then digital. Those books were all more expensive as paperbacks and hardcovers, but I bought them anyway. Secondhand, I scoured the internet for weeks looking for the best deals. I couldn’t afford to do it any other way, I was just graduated, I had debts. And he said that if it weren’t so obvious, he’d still know because everything was placed carefully in this room. It was small and full but not crowded. I never bought anything unless I knew for sure there was already space available for it here.

And I did love to read. Paper copies because of the ADD (the meds were on the bedside table, clear as day) but also because I was a reader when I was a kid. Could never bring myself to throw out those adventures I’d obsessed over. Hush Hush, and The Golden Lilly, The Clockwork Angel. And the classics were there too. Little Women and Pride and Prejudice. Lord of the Rings and the Hobbit.

Throne of Glass, which I never even got the chance to finish.

Everyone knew I was a reader. I had three different versions of the entire Harry Potter series on the top shelf. Everyone but the idiots that call themselves detectives.

And he knew I was learning to draw. Easy enough to figure out if one bothered to open the shoe box full of sketches and printouts of step-by-step instructions for head shapes and body proportions. He knew I didn’t have a large social life, I was far too introverted for that. But the ones I was close too I was very close too. Their gifts are on those shelves as well. Photographs and drawings and letters. A set of pottery-made shot glasses, a dragon made out of clay and painted purple. He even opened the mason jar full of seashells, gave it a whiff and declared they were from Cuba, approximately nine years ago. Apparently they were growing mold. He guessed that that was when I’d had my first drink.

He riffled through my journals and immediately knew details of my history with anxiety and panic attacks that even my therapist didn’t know. He decided I was stubborn. That I almost hadn’t lived as long as I did, except that I refused to give up.

He found the box under my nightstand, the picture album on the very bottom corner of the shelf, the yoga mat in the corner. He knew I danced when I was a kid. Knew I struggled socially. Knew I was still active, still loved it. Knew I could sew enough to mend my clothes, but would never make anything pretty. Knew I didn’t like dresses or frills or the colour pink. Knew my family means everything to me. Knew I slept with the window open. Knew I skated in the winter. Knew I sprayed the bed with lavender oil because I didn’t want to buy fresheners that weren’t eco-friendly. He knew the canvas above my bed was an Ikea print, that I’d get rid of it if I could afford to buy from local artists. Knew I vacuumed on average, three times a week.

He knew that this room, small as it was, was all I had. Knew that I treated it like it was precious. Knew that it was in a constant transient state. From office to yoga studio to lounge to art corner. He knew that I would regularly move this chair over there, drape this blanket over here, and back gain, just to make of it what I could. To offer myself some amount of variability, some comfort that I didn’t need a whole apartment too myself. Even though I dreamed of a condo with a bathtub and a fire place and enough space that I could with it as I please.

He found my notes, knew I was taking a summer course. He found my sticky-notes and highlighters and markers. Knew that being a student didn’t come naturally to me, but I was good at it. I was one of the best. He found the picture of my mom’s dog, knew I loved him so much. He found my fabric shaver, knew I had sensitive skin. He knew I had trouble sleeping.

And at the end of it. He knew how I died. he knew who did it. And before explaining or identifying, he swept out of the room. The detectives followed, in different piques of irritation. And I stood there, staring after him, thinking I’d never been so thoroughly known by anyone.

And I felt sad, suddenly. And tired. Like I was falling asleep before I wanted to. The shelves were blurring.

John Watson was still there. He’d watched after Sherlock with this happy, love-sick look on his face, and I remembered again how stupid men are about love.

And then he blinked. And he picked up that photo that I keep on the wall. The one of me and my siblings and my dog. The one that makes me so happy every time I see it. To remember that these people are out there, somewhere in the world, and they love me. They’re a part of me. And we all come from the same place. That we’ll all return there sometime, too. That some things never change. That even my past has it’s good points.

And John looked at that photo. He looked at me. And he was sad too.

Sherlock came back.

I didn’t know he did that. But he did, he came back and he asked John what was holding him up. Said he’d solved it but he needed proof. And John smiled, and it was a sad smile and he said, “It’s easier when they’re bad guys, or grumpy old men, or bitter middle aged women. When they’re cheaters and liars and killers. When it’s war. But she was just getting to the point of really living life. And she was good. We’ve never solved a good murder before. Their’e always at least a little bit bad.”

And I thought, _John Watson. I guess he can see me too._

And Sherlock… He seemed to slow down. He got sad too. Not because of me. But because when John is sad, it seems like he can’t help but mirror that look back. And he steps fully into the room and he cups his hands around John’s face and If I still had a heart, it’d be beating so hard. If I still had a body, I’d be feeling so good.

Sherlock says, “We’re going to get the bastard that did this. It’s as close to saving her as we can get. And she’s still good, John. Death doesn’t take that away.” And he kissed him. And I smiled.

And it all went dark.


End file.
